A Child Again

The globe is coming 'round to tilt into spring's blossom. Pitch into summer's head-on heat. Winters slanted, retracted cold.
Our lives are in a thousand ways repeatable, never to be duplicated. But, on the general theme of failure and success, of love and loss, on injury and health, all repeatable--if it doesn't end you.

I wish there was a spring for me to be reborn. To spread fresh light tender leaves that shade and nurture the right from the hot regret. But my leaves are in there ways set in a deep green, awaiting the chilled air of early fall. Already, the events that set the green retracting in, leaving vivid reds and oranges, are in motion. Just when I was going to grow another inch, when I was going to fill out this canopy, when I was going to bury my roots deep into the loom. Just when...

It is time. And I could never, will never, come to life again. The snow and ice could break my boughs and the wind could wrench me out the ground. Since this is not a game and I am not a tree the winter is taxing me eminently, inexorability to death. So, this is no time for sorrow or to stagnate. The trees die and rise again. I rise once and die once. This is for real.